“If You Win This Match, I’ll Marry You,” the Duke Mocked—But When the Ruined Spinster Shattered the Apple at Seventy Yards and Demanded Fifteen Thousand Pounds Instead, He Refused to Let Her Walk Away

 PART 5

Massive wrought-iron gates groaned open, revealing a driveway lined with towering ancient elms. High Cross was not merely a house. It was a fortress of limestone and glass, sitting on a rise and dominating the landscape — a physical manifestation of the Perez wealth. Boggy stared at the sweeping terraces, the manicured gardens, the dozens of chimneys puffing gray smoke into the twilight sky.

It was grotesque. It was too big for one man.

The carriage halted. Servants swarmed. A footman opened the door, bowing low. Aldrich stepped out first, adjusting his cuffs before turning to assist. This time Boggy took his hand. There were too many eyes watching. Her fingers rested lightly against his palm, rough calluses scraping against his smooth skin.

A line of staff stood at attention in the cavernous entrance hall. The housekeeper, a stern woman in black bombazine, curtsied deeply. The butler bowed. Dozens of maids and footmen stood in silent, terrified reverence.

Aldrich didn’t introduce her. He didn’t offer a welcoming speech. He handed his hat and cane to the butler.

“Her grace will require a hot bath and dinner in the main dining room in one hour,” he commanded. “Show her to the east wing.”

Boggy followed the housekeeper up a sweeping marble staircase, past tapestries and portraits of dead, severe-looking men. She felt like a mouse navigating a labyrinth built for lions.

Her chambers were absurdly large. The bed could comfortably sleep six. The fireplace was already blazing, and a copper tub sat before it, steaming heavily. She stripped off the gray dress, and when she sank into the hot water, a profound, agonizing ache radiated through her shoulders. The bruising from the fowling piece was turning a deep, sickly yellow.

She closed her eyes. She was safe. Charles was safe. The creditors were gone. But as the heat seeped into her bones, she realized she had traded one kind of terror for another. She was entirely at the mercy of a man who felt nothing.

An hour later she descended to the dining room, having refused the silk gowns left in her wardrobe and chosen a simple dark blue wool dress from her own meager trunk. It was out of fashion by a decade, but it was clean.

The dining room was a cavern. A mahogany table stretched thirty feet across the Persian rug. Aldrich sat at the far end, a single place setting arranged to his right. He was already drinking wine.

Boggy took her seat. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the ticking of a massive grandfather clock. Footmen entered in a synchronized wave, carrying silver platters: roast pheasant, venison spiced with juniper, turbot in cream sauce, buttered asparagus, potatoes swimming in goose fat, tarts, breads, jellies. They set the food down and retreated to the edges of the room, standing like statues.

Boggy stared at the table. There was enough food here to feed her entire village for a week. The smell of rich, heavy meat hit the back of her throat, making her stomach clench violently. For three years she had lived on thin broth, stale bread, and whatever stringy game she could shoot. Her body was not built for this.

She picked up her fork. Her hand trembled. She placed a small piece of plain bread on her plate, added a single spoonful of asparagus.

Aldrich watched her over the rim of his crystal glass. He cut a thick slice of venison and began to eat.

“The turbot is excellent,” Aldrich said, the sound of his voice jarring in the quiet room. “You should try it.”

“I have enough, thank you.”

“You have a crust of bread and three stalks of vegetables. You are my wife, Boggy, not a monk performing penance. Eat.”

“I am eating,” she replied, taking a microscopic bite of the bread.

It tasted like ash.

Aldrich set his knife down. The heavy silver clattered against the porcelain. He signaled to the footmen.

“Leave us.”

The servants vanished instantly, pulling the heavy door shut behind them. Aldrich leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table.

“What game are you playing now? Are you attempting to insult my hospitality, or are you genuinely trying to starve yourself out of spite?”

Boggy dropped her fork. The fragile control she had maintained since the church finally shattered.

“Spite?” she hissed, her voice shaking. “You think this is spite? Look at this table.” She gestured wildly at the sprawling feast. “It’s obscene. You sit here in your empty palace, ordering enough meat to feed an army, while children in the village down the road go to sleep chewing on leather to stop their stomachs from cramping. You don’t know what hunger is. You don’t know what it does to a person’s mind.”

Aldrich stared at her. The cynical retort died on his tongue. Boggy was breathing hard, her chest heaving against the tight wool of her dress. She reached across the table, her manners forgotten, grabbed a linen napkin and shoved a heavy buttered roll into it. She folded it tightly and pushed it deep into the pocket of her skirt.

Aldrich watched the movement. He recognized it.

It was the frantic, deeply ingrained instinct of a stray dog hiding a bone.

She wasn’t insulting his food. She was hoarding it. She fundamentally did not believe the food would be there tomorrow.

A strange, uncomfortable tightness gripped his chest. He had paid her father’s debts. He had assumed that solved the problem. He hadn’t realized the trauma of poverty had dug its claws so deeply into her that she couldn’t even sit at a full table without panicking.

He slowly stood up, and walked down the length of the table. Boggy shrank back slightly, her hand instinctively hovering over the heavy silver carving knife near the roast.

Aldrich stopped a few feet away. He didn’t reach for her. He reached for the platter of sliced venison, and carried it to the sideboard, out of sight. He did the same with the turbot, the pheasant, the jellies, the heavy sauces. He left only a simple bowl of clear broth, a plate of sliced apples, and the basket of bread.

He sat back down in the chair next to hers, ignoring his spot at the head of the table.

“I apologize,” Aldrich said. His voice was quiet, the arrogant drawl completely gone. “I am accustomed to excess. I didn’t consider your perspective.”

Boggy stared at the cleared space in front of her, then at the Duke sitting beside her. The anger drained out of her, leaving her hollow and confused. She had expected a fight. She had expected him to mock her.

Aldrich poured a small measure of watered wine into her glass.

“The broth is light,” he said gently, looking at his own hands resting on the table. “It will not shock your stomach. Eat what you can. Leave what you cannot. No one will take it from you, Boggy. Not tonight.”

He looked up at her.

“Not ever again.”

Boggy looked at the bowl of soup. Her throat tightened painfully. She picked up her spoon. Her hand was still shaking, but she dipped it into the warm liquid and took a sip.

Aldrich didn’t speak again. He sat quietly beside her in the massive echoing room, eating a plain slice of apple — and for the first time in a decade, the Duke of Westford felt ashamed of his wealth.